


As my Streams keep running dry

by dr_zook



Category: Krabat | The Satanic Mill - Otfried Preußler
Genre: F/M, M/M, POV First Person, Post-Canon, Tonda talking from the grave like a film noir narrator, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:51:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5462306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_zook/pseuds/dr_zook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tonda remembers. And he watches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As my Streams keep running dry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pikkugen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikkugen/gifts).



> Dear Recipient, I hope you're not disappointed! I tried to wrangle with all of your wishes at once, and wanted the fluff so desperately, I swear. :D
> 
> Many thanks to L. who tried fixing all my spelling failures. Any remaining mistakes are entirely mine, because I can't stop touching this. 
> 
> Also, I named the Kantorka.
> 
> Title is borrowed from a lyrics line from the band MINSK.

_[Do not stand at my grave and weep_  
_I am not there. I do not sleep._  
_I am a thousand winds that blow._  
_I am the diamond glints on snow._  
_I am the sunlight on ripened grain._  
_I am the gentle autumn rain._  
  
_When you awaken in the morning's hush_  
_I am the swift uplifting rush_  
_Of quiet birds in circled flight._  
_I am the soft stars that shine at night._  
_Do not stand at my grave and cry;_  
_I am not there. I did not die._  
  
\- Mary Elizabeth Frye]

  
*  
// Before, or: Tonda //

  
"We don't have to stay around here," she had said.  
  
"No, by all means. We shouldn't." I looked at her. "But think about it. I won't be making much money anywhere at all. Do you really want to leave your mother and sisters behind?" I put my palm on her knee.  
  
She pushed her hair behind her shoulder and drew closer to me. Her smell was of starched linen and ripe pears cooked with clove. "It doesn't matter. I'll earn just as good anywhere else, maybe even more?"  
  
The look on my face must have changed to doubtful, because she gave me a playful shove with her bony shoulder. "What? Aren't my clothes any good?"  
  
"Well, if you're asking me like that--"  
  
"Tonda!" Then her fist hit my upper arm, making me flinch.  
  
"Ouch," I breathed, already starting to laugh.  
  
"You're no good!" But Worschula's scolding never lasted very long.

*  
// Krabat //

So, you're sitting at a worn table at the inn, waiting for your girl to join you. She's chatting with the parlour's matron. Her blond braids shine brightly in the clear winter light and make you blink once, twice.  
  
You look at all of this: a new year, a new life. Or at least you try.  
  
Villagers are bustling through the guest room, bellowing New Year's Greetings at each other. Most of them don't acknowledge you, thinking you're some relative visiting family. Others let their gazes glide towards you, then eyes meet, brows rise, and foreheads are drawn closer together.  
  
The coat Hanka's cousin gave you sits a bit too tight around your shoulders, a bit too wide around your midriff. Your palm tries to smooth out the crinkles.  
  
I am watching you now and wonder how it wasn't enough. How I wasn't enough. And how, when I met you, I knew it would be you; knew it would be your love that would be eventually the Master's demise.  
  
And to be honest I think he knew it, too.  
  
I remember you in front of me that first night, harrowed and slight. Your eyes unsure, but your posture determined: you wouldn't run away this time. You would stay and make it count.  
  
I counted on you and, well, I guess I was right. And here, see where it got me.  
  
But I think I know the answer, for my love for you wasn't like your love for me.  
  
My love for you was fondness. And your love for me was different than your love for the singer. For her. But then, her love for you is different than your love for her, and this is where my mind gets tangled.  
  
But it had worked fine, didn't it?

  
*

  
You all saw the mill engulfed by fire.  
  
He was waiting, drinking straight from the bottle. In front of him: a cup filled to the rim with his best, reddest wine. From the most secret cranny in the farest corner of his study.  
  
"Jirko," he had cried just before the first explosion.  
  
I wonder what has happened to him. What has been the last thing he saw before the end?

  
*  
// Hanka //

  
I have watched you how you iron your clothes, also the apron you wore when you came to the mill at New Year's Eve, sealed the Miller's fate and loosened the knots that tied all the others to him.  
  
I wonder what has been the difference between you and me. Wonder how the tender strings woven between you and Krabat were so much stronger than the sturdy bonds of camaraderie, of friendship between him and myself. Forged with so much sweat, with strands of fear and the vile stench of resignation.  
  
Everything about you is about reckless prudence, unfazed in the face of bane and annihilation. You impress me, still.  
  
Judging by his gaze he's even more stricken with you in person than he had been before. It's a beautiful picture. I'm almost sure I never saw him laughing during that one year we knew each other.  
  
"I love you," he tells you when you get up, greeting new mornings.  
  
You smile then, and brush his cheeks, rosy and brimming.

  
*

  
Your mother's family owns many of the forests and fields around Schwarzkollm. They sure own the part where narrow paths lead across the countryside to the well you went to silently for the Easter water.  
  
One can see it by the way you hold your head high. How you square your shoulders, fearless and steady: you are grounded in this country, this acreage.  
  
That turf behind the pine copse - remember how you used to play there with your siblings, all of them younger than yourself.  
  
I reckon that's one of the reasons why you fearlessly endured being watched. Being slowly known by a person you never knew existed before.

  
*

  
The way you incline your head when you listen to him, how you lower your gaze then. Only to look straight into his grey eyes when you reply, when you argue with him about simpler things.  
  
How you chide him when his spirits are low. How you put your tender hand on his thigh. You wipe away his insecurities, but you cannot be around him all the time.  
  
"You shouldn't keep too much for yourself," you tell him.  
  
Yet talking to each other never came easy to you. You rather sit at each other's sides, silently and biding your time. It's not uncomfortable, but the inquisitive gazes of your sisters are. The less discrete stares of your mother and the very direct questions of your aunts: "When are you going to marry?" Glancing at Krabat, as if he were a ghost. Not saying, "When are you two going to marry."  
  
He's helping much on your parents' farmyard, it's a sturdy and thankful task. It's clear he's not fond of it and so he becomes restless and uneasy. But he doesn't want to look ungrateful, God, no.  
  
The other journeymen didn't have golden heroines saving them; they have scattered like ravens in the air. Have crawled to their married sisters' households, where they were happy to see them at first, but in the end Krabat's old comrades were just another hungry mouth to feed.

  
*

  
Witko found a girl, they have two children already. All freckles and dark hair, with fair eyes.  
  
When they visit you look at them wistfully, saying nothing. Folding your long fingers in your immaculate lap.

  
*

  
Sometimes he stares at nothing, palming the pocket knife I gave him ages ago. The blade is still shiny and clean.

  
*

  
There are times when you cannot reach him at all: when his moods take their sweet time. And it's going on longer than a week now, and even Andrusch and Staschko who live a few miles down the road can't brighten the air around him.  
  
So you decided to reach out for Juro.  
  
It took you some time to find out his whereabouts, and at first he refused to meet at all. You wondered if he was envious, but he didn't look at you like other men did. And then you remember the way he tentatively had wrapped his arms around Krabat when they had to part ways. How he had closed his eyes to whisper something close to Krabat's temple.  
  
"What did he say?" You try to ask Krabat, when you want to talk about that night.  
  
But he looks at you, his face both falling and closing down.  
  
"Juro," you specify, folding your hands on top of the table between you two.  
  
He sighs your name, "Hanka," looks past your eyes and says, "I don't remember," and there is no reason for you to believe him.

  
*  
// Juro //

  
You're not working in kitchens anymore; your face has lost its roundness. Your hair has grown longer, it's a little tail at the back of your head now. Half of it has turned grey, and it's difficult to guess your age.  
  
You were never dumb and you have long stopped acting like it, so instead you focus on Hanka who had appeared out of the autumn fog one late morning, standing in your workshop. "What do you expect from me?"  
  
She clears her throat. "You never came to visit," Hanka says. Her eye lashes are slow. "Not even Witko's twins."  
  
"I have no time for these things," you say, and add weight to those words by picking up your carving knife again.  
  
"Aren't you interested in their whereabouts? Our whereabouts?" Hanka steps closer, puts her gentle hand on your knife. "Even Lyschko came around."  
  
"I reckon you're all well?" You sigh, drop the blade again. "And Lyschko is probably both lonely and nosy." This morning you were working on a bunch of little dogs. Some yapping, some sitting. Some sleeping, and some running.  
  
"You sell your figures and tools at the markets and at doors. Yet you never came by," she tries again. "I think Krabat would like to see you again."  
  
You make a small noise in the back of your throat, it's a brittle laugh. "No, I don't think so," you just say.  
  
Now it's Hanka's turn to sigh. She's not used to people being this irresponsive towards her efforts. "Juro, I need you to help me. Please." Her voice has become a bit smaller. "It's Krabat. I'm at a loss with him."  
  
When you blink your eyes stay closed for one, two heartbeats. Then you look past her, out of the small window. Outside are the hens picking in the grass, and the sorrel cat tries to chase them. "Why are you talking with me about this? Aren't Andrusch and Staschko living closer to you?"  
  
"Yes, but they are not enough," she says, fiddling now with a small embroidered handkerchief. You feel your breathing become slower. "There is something I can't provide him with, and nor can the others. Not even Lobosch, can you imagine?"  
  
Now your laugh sounds more amiable. "No, I can't." You look again at her. "What makes you think I can change this?"  
  
Hanka's face becomes bright and she straightens her back. "Please, come with me," is her whole explanation. "I don't know what there is between you, but-- I can't have him like this. I believe you should be able to solve this."  
  
"Solve and join again." Your eyes glide back towards the garden. "I don't even need an Emerald Tablet for that," you murmur, and Hanka only knits her brows.

*

The oxen yoked to your empty cart drags itself through the early day's fog, dripping slowly from the willows. Black birds are busily plucking berries from rowan tree branches.  
  
You are wrapped in two and a half blankets, morning dew is glinting on the thick mouse brown fabric. Your heart beats against your collarbone.  
  
You didn't stop Hanka from leaving with a confounded sigh, just continued to stare at the hens, and thought of the various reasons to not comply with her request.  
  
But in the end, a week later, they all didn't matter.  
  
Last night when you stood beneath the yew in your garden and looked into the skies you saw the sharp sliver of the newly waxing moon. Your feet then knew their way in the darkness, brought you back inside the parlour, and deftly avoided trampling over the carrot and bean seedlings, the cabbage and leek. You decided they could endure one, two days without your care.  
  
When the oxen steers closer to the first meadows heralding Schwarzkollm you think of proper lace collars sewn around a wealthy Spaniard's neck.  
  
You know their house; you don't bother with greeting some of the passers-by who remember you from the markets. A sober nod must suffice, you think.  
  
The cart stops in front of the fence separating the farmyard of Hanka's family from the road.  
  
And then you see him.  
  
He is standing there by the front door, pipe in his hands forgotten when he eventually recognizes you. Relief swipes the tobacco pouch from the crook of his elbow, makes it tumble to the grass.  
  
"Juro," he simply says, rubbing his eyes.  
  
You nod and incline your head to tip the rim of your hat. When you look up again you see Hanka inside the house, through the small window. And you are absolutely sure she's holding her breath, grabbing the linen in her hands tighter.  
  
Finally he regains his senses and steps towards you. "Your cart is empty," Krabat says with wonder in his voice.  
  
"Thought--" you begin, then your heart crawls further up the throat and clogs it. You have to cough it loose. "I didn't know if you have gathered any-- belongings. To take with you."  
  
Something in his face flares up and, really, a small smile finds its way around your mouth when you dare to look into his grey eyes for the first time since months.  
  
It feels like ages.  
  
You think you heard something shatter inside the house and Krabat looks over his shoulder, then back at you. He radiates tiredness, but it's peppered with something else.  
  
"No," he says then and then, slowly, as if forming the thought for the first time, "I'm afraid I haven't." His eyes are taking in your figure.  
  
And then you can't hide your surprise when he walks around the cart, pets the oxen's nose and climbs the coach box to settle beside you.  
  
"Krabat," you say, but his hand on your knee silences you. It's warm, you can feel it through the fabric. He shakes his head and wraps the left-over half of the blanket around his legs. Takes the resting whip from your fingers, clicks with his tongue and gets the beast to move, a slow, wide circle across the road of Schwarzkollm. Some of the neighbours are watching you intently.  
  
"I'm sorry," you begin, then you fiddle with your parts of the blanket. The oxen takes his time, steering back out of the village, and so does Krabat; you are in no hurry. "That it took me so long," you add with a smaller voice.  
  
Krabat's thigh brushes yours and he doesn't retreat, but draws his whole body closer to yours. You fear your heart will roll off your tongue now.  
  
And all he says is, "Juro," and you both don't leave the cart until you're back home.


End file.
